Destroyer

More gunfire. The hedge across the stable path offered better advantage, a short crawl in the open, and he scrambled for it, forcing his way in. He came up against a metal stake that must be some of the surveillance equipment—which, God knew, might be telling the house at this very moment that there was an intruder in the brush. He felt for wires, found a conduit, wondered exactly what it led to, but there was no cutoff point, no switch available.

Not a place to linger, in any case. From his new vantage, wriggling further, he saw the stable yard, its rails down, mechieti milling about against the skeletal ruin that had been the stable itself.

And he saw atevi moving down the drive, coming from that direction—not his staff, he feared.

Then he saw half a dozen atevi ru

Not his staff, a dim judgement said, and he whipped up his gun and pasted a single shot at the house corner.

The movement halted, spun about, flattened, and now fire flew in earnest, shots chipping the stonework, ricocheting off the ruined arch over his head. He’d been right—he hoped he’d been right, that his shot had warned Banichi, that he hadn’t aimed at some of Deiso’s men by accident. Or—a sober second thought—Tatiseigi’s.

A shot whisked through the branches above him, clipping evergreen, giving off a strange vegetative pungency in a night air choked with fire and gunpowder. He flattened himself all the way against the dirt, and heard the men who’d taken cover at his one shot now attempt to move. He sent a second shot toward the brickwork, and then, remembering what Banichi and Jago had taught him, slithered as silently as possible back along the hedge to a changed perspective, down among the roots, a much smaller target than atevi would generally be aiming at, and he had possible hiding-places an ateva wouldn’t fit into.

Electric shock jolted his arm, right to the roots of his teeth. He jumped—he couldn’t help it. But he didn’t cry out.

He’d found the only damned live wire in the hedge.

He eased back, nursing a numb arm, and tried to figure out where that loose wire was, and what it was co

What had been cut could be rejoined. He wondered what would happen if he did. Wondered whether it was sensors or lights co

But there was a buildup of hostile force in his area, which was exposed, and likely nervous, hesitating to move into chancier cover where Banichi and his crew waited. He reached through the brush another few meters and located what he’d crawled over. Pulled it gently, rolled on his shoulder while shots continued to go off and uselessly chip the pale stonework near the corner.

Hell, he thought. Whatever was going on around the house, if Cenedi and the dowager were still holding out inside, they couldn’t know what was going on. One thing would tell them, encourage them, give them the notion things weren’t all to the attackers’ liking. He dragged the wire back. Touched it to the live one.

Snap! The lights popped on and a siren blared for about a second before he jerked the wire away.

Gunfire spattered through the hedge. He hoped to God he’d not gotten anyone on his side killed. But Banichi wasn’t easy to surprise. Neither, he hoped, were the Taibeni.

Then he heard a whistle he knew. Once, twice. Fortunate three.

He reco

He didn’t know where it had gone. He couldn’t find it. He didn’t know which way his own side was. The firing kept up, and a concussion went off against the corner of the house, sending a shockwave right over him, deafening him for the moment, in a small fall of leaves.

Not a good position, he decided, and decided, too, knowing the lay of the hedges, that he’d better go back past the live wire and back toward the drive, toward that hedge that ran along the driveway cobbles—it was low, too low to conceal an ateva, and as good a cover as he could get. It was certain he’d been too active in the last few minutes to remain safe where he was.

He moved in that direction, wriggling along, finding and following the live wire, and trying not to make noise, never mind the volleys of shots that were going off on every hand.

He heard whistles. That was Banichi or Jago. He thought so. Hoped it was. He didn’t want to distract them with his problems. He had the gun in hand, had counted the shots he’d made, being sure where he was in the clip. At the same time he asked himself what else there was for a weapon around the stableyard, and he tried to see what might be left of the stable wall, beyond the moving shapes of mechieti. The herd had occupied the yard and now defended it, so far as he could tell—there was a great deal of milling about, a great bluster of snorts and head-shaking, none of which he wanted to challenge—anyone, ateva or human, who attempted the herd in that mood was taking a real chance.

A moment to regroup, lying concealed along the driveway hedge. He remembered he had the pocket com. No one had tried that mode of communication… he’d gotten no signal from it. He didn’t know but what a signal just from turning it on might be picked up, if not understood, and he decided not to try it, Just staying still and undiscovered was a contribution to their side. He could do Banichi the most good just by not getting in—

A shadow moved near him, hunkered down and creeping along the hedge. He could see the face, at least in profile, and it wasn’t one of his. He was relatively sure it wasn’t one of Deiso’s men. Someone—one, no, two of them, attempting to maneuver along the hedge, going right past him.

Stay still? Let them pass? Let someone else handle it?

He fired, fired once and twice more, and the two men went down, one atop the other. He scrambled among the brushy growth, further down the hedge, weaving among the roots, as riflefire cracked and ricocheted off the cobbles of the drive.

Pause to catch his breath. He didn’t know but what there were more after him, but they wouldn’t expect anyone could get underneath the spreading branches, in this small, earthy dark.

A lengthy period of quiet. A sprinkle of rain came down. He laid his head against the ground. Cold had spread through his trousers, and now through his coat, but that was only discomfort. He wasn’t likely to be found if he just didn’t move, didn’t twitch. Except—

He caught a gleam of fire over by the stables.

Someone out there had lit a fire, spooking the mechieti to move out. They squalled and bolted, trampling brush, some crossing the hedge. The fire blazed up and his skin shone like the moon through branches. He did all he could to keep his hands tucked and his face away from the light. He hated not looking. He heard movement outside his hiding-place. He heard a step come right beside him, and the urge to look was overwhelming.

A shot. A body hit the ground right beside him, and now he did look, and saw a man down right beside him—wounded, not dead. It wasn’t one of his side; and sensible as it might be to do for him, for the safety of his own side—he scrupled to become an executioner. He scrambled to get out the other side of the hedge, eeled his way back, while, behind him, someone else tried to get to the man.

Full circle. He’d gotten back in view of the corner of the house, not well enough covered by the hedge, and by now not sure where his own side was. He wriggled underneath the branches and found himself back near the live wire.